De said he was drinking homemade beet juice. I believed him, since he could have claimed the ruby liquid in the cranberry juice bottle was what the label said.

He was still getting used to the idea that it was the Fourth of August. He had received his disability money on the First, paid his rent and left a phone message to confirm he had sent it since he hated late fees. He bought a pack of cigarettes that he put in the freezer. The last thing he remembers was meeting a couple of acquaintances and then drinking himself into a stupor that lasted from Tuesday night until he awoke at his girlfriend's late Friday morning.

His gut hurt. His mother was mad at him because he hadn't paid for his phone minutes. His pack of cigarettes had disappeared. He was out of money and had arrived at Peace House just in time to dig into one of the last plates of food.

That's Tom's pulled pork recipe, I told him.

De stopped eating. This is pork?

I nodded. He walked to the garbage can and scraped off his plate. I'm not sure whether De has religious objections or simply believes pork is bad for him. Some substances hurt his back, he says, including the menthol in cigarettes.

His mother was mad at De about the phone because when De signed up for his plan, he got two phones and put his mother on the other one. Service was suspended until his monthly payment cleared.

August First was Neighborhood Night Out. His sister celebrated with a group in front of her apartment building. An elderly woman who lived upstairs came down to investigate and stabbed De's sister in the arm with a butcher knife, then went back up to her apartment.

Someone called 911 and the police arrived. De's sister was understandably outraged over being stabbed on Neighborhood Night Out. She apparently did not pass the comportment test when police were slow to believe the story about being stabbed by an old woman upstairs. She was handcuffed, taken to the ER for stitches and then put in jail. (Need I mention that De's sister is black?)

De's sister tried to call their mother with her one phone call from jail. It went to voicemail that was not accessible because of the overdue bill.

A day passed and then the old woman stabbed someone else. The police released De's sister. De's mom tried to call De and realized why she didn't hear about her daughter's arrest.

De, meanwhile, slept dreamlessly through all this. His memory a blank except for foggy recollections of visits to the bathroom.

Friday, though, he was clear and philosophical about everything. The old woman had mental problems, he said. He did not blame her. His friends probably helped him drink away all his money. He has a kitchen where he can cook beets and make broth that agrees with him. The chicken wrap he got to replace the pulled pork—sent over with other expiring food from Kowalski's—tasted good.

When I'm not drinking, I feel like myself, he said. Still, he relapses and swerves close to returning to homelessness.

We talk about our bikes and bike accidents for a while. He's been hit on his bike by cars multiple times, twice compounding injuries from a serious car accident. He's been beaten and had his bike stolen by kids doing a gang initiation. He looks toward the future and entering his fifties sees that the life he has now is likely to be as good as it gets.

He stays with me on the porch until Peace House closes. Some people go to the library and hang out downtown, he says, but I don't like being around all those people with nothing to do. I go there and it makes me I feel homeless.